


The Last Temptation

by Firestorm717



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Anal Sex, Authority Figures, BDSM, Breathplay, Butt Plugs, Caning, Canon Era, Chastity Device, Choking, Dom/sub, Face Slapping, Flogging, Humiliation, Knifeplay, M/M, Oral Sex, Prostate Milking, Rope Bondage, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-14 02:41:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7149410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firestorm717/pseuds/Firestorm717
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert survives his leap into the Seine and is brought before his patron, M. Chabouillet, to answer for his actions. Learning of his protégé's derailment, M. Chabouillet endeavors to reel Javert back to the side of the law... by any means necessary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Unfortunate Rescue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Verabird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verabird/gifts).



> A huge thanks to my wonderful beta, [jehane18](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jehane18), who brainstormed with me, patiently edited my drafts, and cheered me on throughout this process. I couldn't have finished this without you :) Also, many thanks to [groucha](http://archiveofourown.org/users/groucha) for his immense research into esoteric bits of French history. All the little details, from street addresses to the latest in cravat fashion, are accurately portrayed due to his help.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Against his will, Javert is rescued from the Seine.

A lone police boat cut through the rolling waves of the Seine, its rusty old port lantern a solitary beacon in the starless night. It swayed and bobbed, hewing close to the quay as it rounded the Pont Notre-Dame, then rode the rapids toward the distant smear of the horizon until a loud splash stopped it in its course. The nose of the boat pitched up like a bloodhound who’d caught the scent. More lights blinked on along its aft and starboard side, followed by a gruff voice snapping orders at its crew. Two burly men cast a net into the ink black waters while the boat circled the source of the sound. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Finally, a heavy weight slammed into the dragnet, and they hauled their catch onto the deck.

A young officer in a pressed navy uniform, his face barely dusted with peach fuzz, knelt beside the sodden figure. “Another victim of the gangs.” He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You see where they tossed him from?”

“Corner of the Pont au Change.” His elder partner stared up at the bridge as if sheer force of will could pierce the veil of night.

“Well, by the time we get up there, they’ll be long gone.” The young officer sighed again. “What a damn mess. Brawls, looting, murder… all ‘cause of those damn rebels.” Shaking his head, he stood up and headed for the bow. “Better tell the captain to swing by the morgue. Hey, I wrote up the whore on the south docks, your turn to fill out the paperwork for this one.”

After a minute more of glaring into pitch darkness, the old officer gave up. Casually, he rolled the body over with his boot. “Hold on. I recognize this man.” He squinted at the blue-tinged face. “That’s Javert!”

“Who?”

“Inspector first class, twelfth arrondissement. I served under him as a probationary.”

The young officer peered down at the corpse, taking in the leather stock, the silver bars on the collar, the navy uniform that matched his own. “You’re right. Christ, he’s one of us. Christ.” Voice shaking, he scrubbed the heel of his hand over his brow. “Things are _really_ bad if they’re goin’ after the police.”

His partner frowned. “I thought he was dispatched to the main barricades.” Settling on his haunches, the old officer rifled through Javert’s pockets.

“Got separated in the chaos, most likely. Cursed rioters spread as far as the Arsenal and Châtelet. Nothing but blood an’ mayhem all along the streets, I tell you. If he were tailing someone, they coulda’ gone - ”

Suddenly, the body heaved and spewed water from its mouth. 

“Sweet Jesus!” Both men jerked back as if they’d seen a ghost. 

With a shaking hand, the elder officer felt Javert’s wrist for a pulse. “He’s alive! Get us to the nearest hospital, quick.”

“But the sick bay at the station-house is full to bursting!”

“Then head for the Prefecture. There’s a doctor on staff in the adjacent wing to the Bureau.” Seeing his junior partner’s hesitation, the old officer snapped, “Do it!”

“Marcel! Préfecture de Police, on the double!” The young officer stomped up to the bridge. Seconds later, the boat pivoted in a tight arc and sped toward the coast of Île de la Cité, its prow leaping through the waves like a bloodhound chasing down its quarry. Returning to starboard, he stared at the distant spire of their destination. “You know that doc’s only for the higher-ups. Probably won’t even see us.”

“He will see Javert.” Gently, his partner tilted Javert’s head to one side, causing another gush of water to spill from the latter’s nose and lips. “When we get there, send an errand boy to 226 St. Martin. The secretary to the Prefect will want to hear about this.”


	2. A Private Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> M. Chabouillet discovers the reason behind Javert's suicide attempt.

Javert was suffocating.

His lungs burned with fire. His chest ached for breath. His Adam’s apple bobbed and strained as he tried to gulp air, but all he managed was a weak gurgle.

_Cracked… lungs… water…_

He was kneeling in darkness, in filth. Mud caked his trousers and cheeks, swam up the murky brick walls that pressed in on all sides, heaving, seething, the belly of a beast so immense he knew not its head or tail. Dizziness. Pain. No cobblestones in the sky. Nausea. Blood. No stars beneath his feet.

A black angel approached and pressed a knife to the serpent around his neck.

“Stay calm.”

The blade was a cold, sharp caress. Its point traced his jugular, its edge nibbled the hollow of his throat. Steel as unforgiving as a jilted lover’s heart. He closed his eyes and smiled, awaiting the final kiss.

Instead, the serpent fell in nine pieces at his feet.

“Go.”

Javert touched his neck in confusion. “What?”

“You are free.”

The angel offered a hand, but Javert snarled and batted it away.

“No! Get away from me!”

“Clear out before they find you.”

In the next instant, he was dragged up by his shoulder and shoved toward a gap in the wall: a tunnel wreathed in crumbling rock and eerie, blinking vines, but with a faintly flickering glow at the end. Javert whirled, his face ashen.

“Y-You can’t do this. You’re a convict, a filthy galley-slave. A thief!” he yelled, trembling. “I don’t want your mercy!”

With a sad smile, the angel shook its head. “I’m no different than any other. You could never see that, but I forgive you.” Bending, it pressed its lips gently to his brow.

No… no, this could not be… he would not allow it! Twisting wildly, Javert wrestled with the angel. He hurled punches left and right, kicked at every opening, but though he fought with all his might, he was no match for the gentleness of his captor. The angel’s grip was light as a feather, yet it held him like a vise. The kindness in that blazing, haloed face shackled him more completely than the heaviest iron manacles. It was…

_Too much. Grab his arm!_

There was no escape, Javert realized, panic roiling in his gut. He flung himself away, tried to run from this monstrous saint, this villainous martyr, this - this - 

_\- isn’t enough! Can’t set… damn…_

But black sludge sucked him down. Gasping, Javert threw his arms out blindly in the dark. Dead leaves, silt, and rotten driftwood clung to his limbs, forming a massive chain like in the prisons of Toulon, dank and fetid. Not here. He couldn’t be here! Javert bit and thrashed, struggled with every ounce of his strength, but his efforts only served to mire him further in the quicksand. No! He cried out wordlessly. If only he’d listened to the angel!

And then, clear as a clarion call, a voice of command moved him to his core.

“Hold still, Javert.”

Instinct took over. Javert did as he was told.

~o~

Javert woke to the pounding of a hammer inside his ribcage and the taste of bilge water in his mouth. Pain beat steadily in every one of his bones. Was this Hell? He had expected flames like in the Scripture, but perhaps the Devil thought it best to draw out his torture, stoke the Inferno with kindling rent from Javert’s soul. Well, that was his due. He had committed a mortal sin, after all. Eternal punishment was just.

Gingerly, Javert shifted in his bonds… only to find they were made of silk. Wait. Silk? Silk sheets on a soft, luxurious bed, and goose-down pillows propped beneath his head. Had - had he been brought to Heaven? Javert’s heart quaked. The angel he saw, was that truly the Divine? He rolled over - and quickly clapped his side in agony. No, this could not be Heaven either. He felt bandages wrapped around his chest, clean linen sprinkled with a tincture to ease the pain.

He was alive then. Wretchedly, accursedly alive.

The disappointment that surged through him at this fact was unspeakable.

Reluctantly, Javert opened his eyes, only to be blinded by a rush of light. He forced himself to stare at a fixed spot, a golden globe that shone with the intensity of the sun, blinking rapidly until his sight adjusted enough to make out its identity. It was not, as he first thought, a lamp. The color was deeper, darker, a rich russet - or perhaps bronze. Yes, polished bronze. That seemed right. Slowly, the blurry corona sharpened into curves and angles, which fit together to form parts of an animal: an elegant mane here, a sharp tooth there… a lion’s head. A lion’s head atop a thick oak cane.

Javert’s blood turned to ice. He sat bolt upright and tried to stand up, but a searing pain in his ankle knocked him flat.

“Lie back down,” an all-too-familiar voice commanded him. Chabouillet pressed a firm hand to Javert’s chest, holding him against the bed until Javert reluctantly relaxed. “You are lucky. Monsieur Collet says you’ll keep the foot, although it will be some time before you can walk.”

Javert tried to reply, but only a parched groan crept past his lips. He clutched his abdomen where surely a demon was banging a ditty with a pitchfork.

“Yes, you cracked your ribs too. Three of them, I believe.” Walking over to a desk against the wall, Chabouillet plucked a scrawled doctor’s note from its spotless mahogany surface. “Quite a plunge you took into the Seine. The officers who fished you out said it was the most treacherous part of the rapids. If not for their patrol boat passing by, you would have surely drowned.” He flicked a glance back at his protégé. “It seems God favored you that night. Would that He could have prevented your fall in the first place.”

Javert flinched and looked down at his hands.

“I am curious though: how did you end up at the Pont au Change?”

The blood drained from Javert’s face. He opened and closed his mouth several times, but no words came out. Desperately, his gaze flitted around the room: to the vivid angles of the marble fireplace across from his bed, the crimson and gold divan beside it, the antique grandfather clock that loomed over them both, its gleaming silver dial like the eye of God staring down in judgment. Emerald vines curled on cream wallpaper. A wine-hued rug poured over the floor. Scintillating lamplight. Intense colors. Sharpness too great. Vertigo swept through Javert like that first embrace of the Seine, and he clutched his head.

Chabouillet allowed the long hand of the clock to sweep out an entire circle before he continued. “I found your hat.” He rapped the object in question on the desk. “Given the circumstances, I decided to investigate the bridge myself. It was sitting on the quay beside a pair of boot-prints - large boot-prints, right at the edge of the parapet. No signs of struggle, no evidence of anyone else around those parts… which leads me to believe that whoever left those prints must have climbed up voluntarily. Now, why would someone do that?” he mused, strolling with deceptive nonchalance back to Javert’s bedside. “Surely, it was not to admire the _view_ in the moonless dark.”

“Monsieur… I - ” Javert choked.

“I will ask you again, Javert. Do not disobey me.” Leaning over his subordinate, Chabouillet lifted Javert’s chin with the head of his cane. “What were you doing in the Seine last night?”

Forced to meet his patron’s icy eyes, Javert shook like a rabbit caught in a snare. He licked his lips, opened his mouth, began to form words… when a knock came at the door.

“Monsieur Chabouillet, it is fifteen minutes to two. You said to remind you about your meeting with the Prefect.”

Chabouillet held Javert’s gaze for a second longer before pulling back. “Think on it. I expect an answer when I return.” He whispered a few words to the porter, then closed the door. The deadbolt slid into place behind him.

As soon as the voices died in the foyer, Javert cast about desperately for a weapon. His sidearm and cudgel were gone. There were no knives, forks, or other sharp objects on the tables. The lone window by his head was barred shut with thick wooden blinds, and a quick shake confirmed they were locked in place. Yanking on the nightstand drawer told him it was similarly secured. Javert searched for something he could break, glass perhaps, or porcelain - any object he could fashion into a cutting edge. Yet despite its expensive furnishings, the room was bereft of any ornaments. No vases graced the tables, no statues adorned the mantelpiece, not even a crucifix hung on the wall: it was as if someone had deliberately cleared everything out.

No, not someone. Monsieur Chabouillet.

Javert’s breath hitched. He forced himself to swallow around the knot in his throat. Staring at the crystal lamp that swung overhead, he considered hanging himself with the sheets, but his ankle was not strong enough to hold his weight. Damn it… damn it! Growling, Javert slammed his fist into the nightstand. A compartment popped open at its bottom, and out rolled a tiny brown bottle. Curious, he picked it up. Laudanum, yes! With quivering fingers, Javert tore at the stopper, cursing his unsteady hands. It took him three tries before he finally pried open the bottle. He upended it eagerly over his mouth… only to find it empty. With a furious cry, he hurled it at the far wall.

“Monsieur Javert, is everything alright?” The voice of the porter drifted through the door.

Javert took a deep, steadying breath. “Y-Yes.”

“Monsieur Chabouillet says for you to rest. He will return from his meeting shortly.” There was a pause. “He asked me to ensure you do not hurt yourself, Monsieur.”

“I am quite fine, thank you.”

So he was to be a prisoner here. Javert collapsed into the pillows in defeat. A prisoner awaiting interrogation. Shame consumed him as violently as the fires of Hell. That he’d survived his fall was bad enough, that it was his patron who discovered his disgrace - the man he owed everything to, who owned him in body if not in soul… Javert’s heart felt as if it were being torn asunder. His eyes slid back in despair to the nightstand. There was one object Monsieur Chabouillet had left him: his silver snuff box, its lid smashed and dented in his fall. The inscription that once shimmered with an inlay of mother-of-pearl was now barely legible, but Javert knew it by heart. _Lex, Honorem, Officium._

Law, Honor, Duty.

~o~

The wick of the oil lamp overhead had burned down to nearly a nub before voices returned to the foyer.

Javert kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He had been staring at the same point for the past hour, silent and impassive as a statue, the only indication of his earlier outburst the cracked bottle that now stood beside an untouched tray of food on the nightstand. When the door creaked open, he broke from his reverie long enough to sit up, fingers interlacing neatly in his lap, but otherwise gave no sign of acknowledging his patron’s approach.

“I was waiting to meet with Henri when I thought to check in with his _secretaire intime_. New lad from Toulouse: dark-haired, angel-faced, hired more for his… social skills than his collating ability. I offered to help him sort through the Prefect’s correspondence. Imagine my surprise when I encountered a letter from you.” Sliding on his spectacles, Chabouillet unfolded a crisp piece of parchment. “‘A Few Observations for the Good of the Service.’” He shot a look at his subordinate. The lines around Javert’s lips tightened. “‘In the first place, I beg Monsieur le Préfet to cast his eyes on this. Secondly: prisoners, on arriving after examination, take off their shoes and stand barefoot on the flagstones while they are being searched. Many of them cough on their return to prison. This entails hospital expenses. Thirdly: the mode of keeping track of a man with relays of police agents from distance to distance is good, but on important occasions, it is requisite that at least two agents should never lose sight of each other, so that in case one agent should, for any cause, grow weak in his service, the other may supervise him and take his place.’”

Dipping his head, Chabouillet regarded his protégé over the rim of his glasses. “There are another eight items, but I believe I have the gist.” He paused. “It’s very eloquent. I’ve never seen such precise chirography from you, Javert. That _is_ your signature at the bottom, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“And you are certain it’s not a forgery?”

Javert raised his chin just a fraction, replying with level dignity, “I wrote it last night at the Place du Châtelet. The post there arrives quicker than other station-houses.”

Sighing, Chabouillet slipped off his spectacles and sank into a chair beside the bed. “Let me pose a question to you,” he said, leaning an elbow on the nightstand. “If you were the investigating officer on this case, and you discovered all the evidence I’ve discovered - hat, boot-prints, a near-drowning at the Seine - what conclusion would you draw for the General Inspectorate?”

“I would tell the committee that the author of this letter suffered a mental aberration and is unfit for duty as a law officer.”

“Surely, a man who penned such a calm, meticulous letter was not caught in the throes of insanity. These observations are very detailed; the author seems to have collected them over years of service.”

“Perhaps he always kept this list in his head, and it was the breakdown in his mental faculties that propelled him to address Monsieur le Préfet.”

“Do you have any theories as to what caused this breakdown?”

Javert shrugged. “Too much drink. A blow to the skull. A fight with a friend or lover.”

“Wine and petty arguments would hardly cause an officer to throw his career away like this, or climb onto the parapet alone at night,” Chabouillet retorted, a note of irritation sharpening his tone.

“The letter merely contains suggestions for improvement of the service. One can hardly condemn an upright man for speaking the truth.”

“Enough dissembling, Javert,” Chabouillet snapped, slamming the parchment down on the nightstand. “We both know what this letter truly is: an ill thought-out resignation.” Anger shattered through his carefully constructed veneer of civility, contorting his handsome features as his voice built to a crescendo. “Did you _think_ that you could go over my head with such nonsense? Address the Prefect himself? After everything I’ve done for you, opportunity after opportunity I’ve extended over the years, taking you into my confidence and into my bed; losing sleep even now to head off the scandal your senseless actions at the bridge have wrought - and you repay me with lies and evasion? What kind of fool do you take me for?” he roared.

Like a switch, Chabouillet’s fury jolted Javert to rigid attention. “Maître, please - ”

“Wipe that title off your tongue. You no longer deserve to call me that.”

Javert recoiled as if he’d been shot. For the first time since he’d awakened, he looked closely at the other man: the dark circles beneath Chabouillet’s eyes, the disheveled coiffure and rumpled, slept-in clothes. The knowledge that he was the cause of his patron’s distress filled him with unspeakable shame. “Monsieur.” Javert bowed his head deeply. “I am not worthy of your patronage. Please, punish me, dismiss me, denounce me before the General Inspectorate. I accept whatever disgrace comes my way.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake, Javert, leave off with the self-flagellation,” Chabouillet spat, his lip curling in disgust. “I don’t have the patience to play games.” Wrenching Javert's chin up, he forced the latter to meet his gaze. “Give me an honest answer. How did you end up in the Seine last night?”

“I leaped of my own volition.” Javert’s Adam’s apple bobbed. A cold trickle of sweat slid down his temple, staining the collar of his nightshirt. With the truth wrested from his lips, Chabouillet released him and calmed once more, though that pale gaze kept Javert pinned in place as surely as a fisherman speared a trout. “It seemed a fitting way to die. The sky was covered in clouds, the bridge pitch dark, no passersby to witness or stop my jump. That portion of the river churns with the most violent rapids; every fortnight, we receive reports of men who disappear in its depths. Thus, if the fall did not kill me, drowning would be swift and painless. At least… that is what I’d hoped.” Javert hesitated, eyelids flickering. He had expected dizziness, panic, even the initial pain of impact, yet the sheer agony from lack of breath… the vise that squeezed him from spine to sternum until he thought every bone might break…no, he had not been prepared for that. “But it seems God conspired against my death.”

Chabouillet’s expression was inscrutable as he mulled over Javert’s words. “Start at the beginning. What happened the day of the insurrection?”

“I received an order directly from Monsieur Gisquet.” Chabouillet’s eyes narrowed at the Prefect’s name. “He dispatched me to spy on the rebels near the Jena bridge. I disguised myself and successfully infiltrated the barricades at Rue de la Chanvrerie, but a member of their group, a young… _gamin_ , identified me, and I was captured.” Javert frowned. “It was a failure on my part: I should have anticipated informers among their ranks. In any case, their leader did not see fit to kill me immediately, so they seized my weapons and bound me to a post inside a wine-shop. I remained there through the first volley with the National Guard.” 

“And then you escaped?”

Javert shook his head, his limp hair rustling against his shoulders. “Near the end of the fighting, a man appeared and asked - was assigned to be my executioner. He marched me past the barricades, pushed me into a hidden alleyway, flicked open his _surin_ , and… cut my ropes.” His brow furrowed deeply. “He freed me. He had every reason to desire my death, but he showed me mercy.”

“Did you know this man?”

“I…” With Chabouillet’s keen eyes upon him, Javert had only moments to decide Valjean’s fate. To reveal their relationship was to condemn Valjean, but to lie to his superior… that could damn them both. He chose the third option: to evade the question entirely. “He was a man no different from any other.”

“Hmm.” Leaning back in his chair, Chabouillet rubbed his chin.

Javert continued in a quiet voice, “Later, after the battle ended, I returned to the same street and saw him by the sewers. I knew I should arrest him: he’s a dangerous man, a rebel sympathizer, no doubt a murderer like the rest of them, yet I… could not.” His fingers clenched in the coverlet, shaking. “He showed me mercy and I returned it, and in so doing, failed my duty to the law.” Javert hung his head. “I failed,” he whispered.

Chabouillet studied his protégé thoughtfully. “This man, what happened to him? Is he still alive?”

“I do not know what became of him.” It wasn't technically a lie: Valjean could have fled across the sea by now, for all he knew. But neither was it the truth, and Javert squirmed under his patron’s piercing gaze.

Chabouillet’s eyes thinned just a fraction, but if he found the answer unsatisfactory, he gave no indication. Instead, he addressed Javert in a gentler tone, “A single moment’s hesitation is no reason to punish yourself like _this_ , Javert. You’d just escaped death at the hands of the traitors, you cannot judge yourself so harshly after your ordeal.”

“No! That’s not it, that’s not the reason I - ” Javert growled, clawing a hand through his hair. “To allow this man to go free violates the very code that governs society, yet to arrest him would be to betray my savior, repay kindness with condemnation, send a good - a man who has done good to the galleys. I could do neither, so my only recourse was to kill myself.”

“Suicide is a mortal sin. You know this.” Chabouillet fixed his subordinate with a grave look. “Why did you not let the courts decide his fate? If you vouched for him, the magistrate would likely show leniency.”

Javert shook his head fiercely. “Judges are fallible, tribunals make mistakes. Justice is not always served.” He heaved a long, wavering sigh as he struggled for the first time to put his thoughts into words. “On the bridge last night, I felt… something move inside me, something beyond the law, which held a higher authority. I - I cannot explain it. It was there, it compelled me; perhaps it was God’s will after all.” Javert’s stomach dropped at the memory, and reflexively, he clutched the bed covers. “This force stood in direct opposition to the dictates of man. It said, ‘Javert, you cannot deliver up your savior’, and I could not ignore it - yet neither could I ignore my duty to the police, to _you_ and all you represent. Do you see, Monsieur?” he cried, raw and anguished, gazing up at Chabouillet with glistening eyes. “I was torn in two directions! In one direction, the law I have sworn my life to uphold, in the other, this - this _thing_ inside me, this divine superior that spoke of mercy and grace. I… I cannot… I dare not…” Javert broke off with a choked whimper, burying his face in his hands.

Chabouillet grabbed his protégé’s shoulders firmly. “Calm yourself, Javert!”

“I have no more reason to live. Authority is dead, gone. I have faltered and I have fallen, and now I must pay the price.” Curling in on himself, Javert wept, pain searing his ribs with every sob that wracked his body. He’d lost everything now: his purpose, his self-respect, his pride, and doubtless his patron as well. There was nothing left but his grief. Even a man as disciplined as Javert could not be expected to remain stoic against such utter destruction.

Hearing the misery in Javert’s voice, Chabouillet softened. He slid onto the bed and wrapped an arm around Javert’s back, murmuring, “Nonsense. You must live, you have done nothing wrong.” He stroked Javert’s hair soothingly until Javert’s sobs subsided. “This madness will pass, I assure you. Your mind has simply been… unsettled by what those cursed rebels did to you. How can it not be, after everything you’ve endured? Beaten and captured and facing death… Christ, if I’d only realized - ” Chabouillet’s jaw hardened. He squeezed Javert’s shoulder, this time with protective anger. “But you are safe now. You will rest, and on the morn all will be clear.” Shushing Javert’s protests, he plucked a silk handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to the other man’s face.

Javert scrubbed his red-rimmed eyes quickly, shame curdling in his stomach at his histrionic display. Turning away from his patron, he took deep, shuddering breaths until his heartbeat slowed and his voice no longer quavered. “I do not know what the right path is anymore,” he said softly. “Whether the law is still supreme, or whether God’s will is superior.”

“Javert, you must focus on your area of expertise. You are a police officer, one of the best I’ve known.” Chabouillet patted his protégé’s cheek with fond affection. “Your realm is the law. Leave questions of religion to the Church.”

“But what if the law is wrong? What if I commit a sin by following man’s decrees when God would have me act with mercy?”

“Have you forgotten the Sacraments? Eucharist, contrition, penance: these are all you need for salvation. If in the course of your duty, you have sinned, you can repent and find absolution in the eyes of the Lord.”

Frowning, Javert brushed his patron’s hand aside. “This is different. To sin out of ignorance is one thing, but to deliberately disobey His will - ”

“And what will is that? Did God Himself actually speak to you at the quay?”

“He…” Javert bit his lip, realizing how unhinged he must sound. Only saints and madmen claimed to hear voices from above, and he was certainly not the former. “No, He did not.” He heaved a defeated sigh. “What happened at the barricades, it woke something inside me… and I cannot explain it except with the Divine.”

“All that we can know is the here and now: society and the law. Let the clergy decide what is or is not divine will. Men like Monseigneur Gemayel have studied the Bible their entire lives; they are the experts, not you or I.” Seeing the turmoil in Javert’s eyes, Chabouillet offered, “If you truly feel conflicted, I will introduce you to His Grace at Notre-Dame. He can answer any questions you have about the Scripture.”

“No, that’s… that’s not necessary, Monsieur. I see your point.” Javert flushed. He had been presumptuous, he now realized. How could he think a single, confused epiphany gave him the right to question his superiors? Men like the Bishop had prayed upon the Bible for years, and their blessings held sway over the system of law. Javert had naught but his revelation on the bridge, an aberration of the mind, really, and one he failed to follow to its conclusion before he leaped. Perhaps he’d made a mistake. He was not learned like the clergymen. He could very well have overlooked a flaw in his reasoning, unaccustomed as he was to deep contemplation. Surely, if God required mercy of His earthly servants, the Church would know and carry it out.

All this Javert told himself, yet he could not rid the niggling disquiet from his heart. “It’s just… this - this feeling inside me - ”

Sighing impatiently, Chabouillet rose to his feet. “Javert, set aside your feelings. Feelings make men weak. Society was built on concrete knowledge.” He walked over to his satchel and rummaged in its pockets. “These emotions inside you, they are merely the aftereffects of your imprisonment. I have seen it in the past: men taken hostage, held for long periods under threat of torture and death, soon begin to sympathize with their captors. Some will defend the very criminals who harmed them! It is a temporary delusion, no more, sanity lost in the rising tides of desperation.”

Chabouillet returned to Javert’s bedside with a brown bottle. “This is why you must rest, Javert. Take the laudanum Monsieur Collet prescribed.” Uncorking the bottle, he pressed a spoonful of the dark, bitter liquid to Javert’s lips. Javert hesitated before opening his mouth. “There, good. Swallow. Your mind will be clearer when you wake. As for this - ” Chabouillet ripped Javert’s letter into pieces. “It goes without saying that I refuse your resignation. I want my irreproachable officer back.”

Javert might have protested the brusque command if his head weren’t already swimming from the laudanum’s effects. “I don’t know if I can be that any more,” he whispered as he sank back into the pillows, the shadows seeming to lengthen around him.

A tender hand came to rest on his brow and slowly brushed his eyelids closed. “Do not worry,” Chabouillet’s voice echoed from somewhere dark, distant. “I will guide you. You need only listen to me in the next few weeks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The term _secretaire intime_ literally translates to "intimate secretary", an actual position within the Prefecture at that time.
> 
> \- The word _Maître_ means "Master", a common title for the Dom in a D/s relationship.


	3. The Beginnings of Enrailment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slowly, M. Chabouillet nudges Javert back toward law and justice.

Morning turned into night and then into morning again, the week a long, nebulous haze punctuated by visits from Monsieur Collet, who inspected Javert’s wounds and changed his bandages with clinical detachment. Javert was grateful for the solitude. Despite his conversation with Monsieur Chabouillet, his conscience still gnawed at him, and the hours he did not spend dining or sleeping, he devoted to prayer. Prayer for what, he was not sure. A sign, perhaps. Guidance? In the light of day, the desperate feelings that had torn through him at the Seine seemed far away. Maybe what Javert really wanted, as he folded his hands and bowed his head, was certainty. If God was truly his new superior, He would command Javert with the same firmness and stringency, the same strict discipline that he expected from all his superiors. Mercy would be an order, charity a mandate handed down by a divine magistrate. Yet for all Javert’s pleas, he received no response from on high. So he prayed again… and he waited. It would not do for an inferior to operate on faith alone.

On occasion, his patron stopped by to check on his recovery. At first, Javert dreaded these visits, recalling Monsieur Chabouillet’s icy glare and cold voice the night of his confession. However, as time passed, he found the latter’s affections returning as if it were the old days, when Chabouillet would call him into the office and bid him to kneel, to serve with his hands or mouth or body bent over the desk. Javert could not fathom why, but he was grateful for the reprieve. Monsieur Chabouillet would often bring a newspaper or pastry to share while apprising him of the goings-on at the Prefecture. Any small comfort he desired - extra pillows, books, a pinch of snuff - was swiftly fulfilled by the porter. The only request his patron denied was his appeal to leave the bedroom. Once, after the first week, Javert tentatively asked to be released home, citing his overdue rent, but Chabouillet brushed his excuse aside. He was a guest at this apartment. Food, drink, and the doctor’s expenses were all covered. His sick pay would be deposited at the bank, and any bills to his landlady automatically deducted. Javert need only concentrate on recuperating from his injuries. So his patron said, before closing and locking the door upon departure.

Well, with a fractured ankle, Javert could do little else. Better that he spend his house arrest examining his thoughts and determining what to do with his newfound morals.

“How are your ribs? Better?” Chabouillet asked after lunch one day.

“Healing,” Javert grunted.

“Let me see.” Pulling back the covers, Chabouillet slid a hand gently down his protégé’s bare abdomen, probing each crease of muscle. When he reached the bandages around Javert’s side, Javert winced and gritted his teeth. “Still fragile. I will have Monsieur Collet inspect them again.” He fixed his subordinate with a piercing gaze. “What about the rest of your faculties? Have you thought on what I said?”

“Yes, Monsieur. I… have been thinking.”

“Well, in the course of your deliberations, do not hesitate to ask me any questions. Your well-being is important to me, Javert.” A thread of warmth tugged at the corners of Chabouillet’s mouth. Lightly, he caressed Javert’s cheek.

Javert’s skin prickled with heat, and unconsciously, he tilted into his patron’s palm. An ache stirred deep in his chest.

As he turned to leave, Chabouillet said, “Ah, I almost forgot. I had this repaired.” Reaching into his waistcoat, he pulled out a familiar item and placed it on the nightstand. “You damaged it in your fall.”

Long after his patron had departed, Javert’s gaze lingered on the silver snuff box, its edges newly wrought, its cover now free of dents, the relief of a hunting hound and its master polished to a beauteous shine. The Latin inscription shimmered once more with iridescent mother-of-pearl. Slowly, he traced the three words, mouthing them like a silent prayer. _Law, honor, duty_. These principles he knew with certainty.

~o~

“Have your prayers been answered?”

Javert startled from his position by the bed. This late in the evening, he hadn’t expected his patron to visit. Quickly, he crossed himself and levered up on one foot, grimacing as pain shot through his ankle. Chabouillet helped him up from his other knee.

“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Javert muttered, avoiding his patron’s gaze as he sank onto the bed covers.

“That He does.” Chabouillet brought over a tray containing a white porcelain teapot and two cups of steaming black tea. Setting it down on the nightstand, he stirred a cube of sugar into each teacup, then gestured for Javert to join him. “I spoke to Monseigneur Gemayel at Mass yesterday. There will be a funeral for the officers and Guardsmen who lost their lives at the barricades. A few of our own are among those honored.”

Blowing gently on his tea, Javert took a sip of the dark liquid. “A tragedy, Monsieur. I wish I could attend.” He knew all too well that he’d be lying in one of those coffins if not for Valjean’s intervention.

“I asked His Grace about the state of these good men’s souls. They were engaged in bloodshed at the time of their deaths, and while defending Paris is a worthy cause, one cannot be certain that every bullet found an opponent in the chaos. Many innocents lost their lives that day as well. Do you know what His Grace told me?” Javert stared into the swirling depths of his teacup. “He said that duty itself is a virtue before God, and whatever sins these men may have committed in service to their country, they will be forgiven in the afterlife. He will see to it with his prayers.” Chabouillet shot his protégé a meaningful look. “I trust you’ll keep them in your prayers as well.”

~o~

“Some bedtime reading.” Chabouillet dropped a thick pamphlet on the nightstand. “Alfred tells me you’ve been growing restless, so I thought you’d appreciate a distraction.”

Javert remembered how the porter - who, as it turned out, was one of Chabouillet’s junior policemen on the force - had denied his simple request to sit in the parlor and crack open a window. The man treated him like he was a child asking to play with matches! Indignity burned inside Javert. He could not keep an edge out of his voice. “I only wished to take a breath of fresh air.”

“I understand,” Chabouillet said gently, laying a hand on Javert’s shoulder. “But you realize why I’m still concerned. When I saw your body fished from the Seine, it… hurt me deeply, Javert. You cannot know.” He squeezed his protégé tightly. “I felt it entirely my responsibility for failing to recognize and protect you from your ordeal. As your patron, your… Maître, I should have been there to guide you.”

“I am sorry,” Javert whispered, his indignity melting into shame. The word _Maître_ lingered on the tip of his tongue, but he did not let it slip, not with his other superior, God, surely watching from above. Instead, he reached out and took his patron’s hand, bringing it to his lips.

Chabouillet allowed a moment’s affection before drawing away, his tone once more crisp with formality. “The legislature passed new amendments to the penal code. Mostly a weakening of the standards: reductions in sentencing, proposals for rehabilitation, and a broader set of cases under which punishment may be mitigated.”

“I see.” Leaning forward, Javert flipped through the pamphlet, skimming the section titles. Dense ink filled each cream-colored page with complex legal jargon.

Chabouillet crossed his arms, tapping the head of his cane irritably. “I do not approve of this leniency toward the criminal class. One cannot keep feeding the wolf without risking one’s hand.” He sighed. “But the Ministry of Justice has spoken: clemency is the order of the day. In fact, you might find portions of section 2.5 interesting. It outlines ways in which the jury - and by extension, the courts - can show mercy within the system.”

That night, Javert’s prayers were considerably shortened, as he stayed up late to study the laws his patron so helpfully bookmarked… and to dream of Monsieur Chabouillet’s fingers around his neck, forcing the word _Maître_ again and again from his lips.

~o~

“Monsieur, please, you needn’t lower yourself to performing such menial tasks,” Javert protested in distress.

“Sit back. Tilt your chin up.”

“I am perfectly capable of shaving myself.” Despite his objections, Javert did as he was told. “Or your porter can fetch a barber from down the street, I will pay out of my own pocket.”

“Turn a touch to the left.”

“Please, you need not fret - ”

“ - that you will try to kill yourself?”

Javert clapped his mouth shut.

“Hold still.” Gripping Javert’s chin firmly, Chabouillet slid the straight razor smoothly across soap-lathered skin. Weeks of unkempt whiskers fell in its wake. For the next few minutes, the only sounds in the room were the swish of hot water in the scuttle and the _snip_ of bristles cut by the blade.

Javert closed his eyes, resigning himself to the shave. In truth, the attention made him apprehensive. This last week, his prayers had often been interrupted by images of the past, and though he kept his eyes firmly upon the cross, he could not stop his body from aching at the memory of Monsieur Chabouillet’s touch. It was a sin, he knew, to submit to any master besides the Lord. Moreover, his patron had made it abundantly clear that Javert’s submission was no longer welcome. Yet he could not let it go. Nearly a quarter century of wearing Monsieur Chabouillet’s collar had plowed in him a kind of furrow, a trench through which the waters of his darkest desires churned, and though he tried to divert his thoughts in another direction, the slightest tremor sent them surging back into the channel which had borne them for so long.

Chabouillet’s long, elegant fingers caressed his jaw, stroking each newly shaved patch of skin, sending shivers down his spine. One white hand closed lightly around his throat, holding him steady as the razor skimmed close to his jugular vein. Javert’s breath did not even stutter. He bared his neck with absolute trust, allowing Chabouillet to shift and turn him at will, secure in the knowledge that his superior knew better than he what Javert required. It was a comfort to submit like this. Javert’s heart ached as he recalled the freedom of surrender. Between his spy work for the Prefect and Monsieur Chabouillet’s own duties at the Bureau, the last time they had been intimate was - well, was some weeks before Lamarque’s funeral procession. How he missed the stroke of those fingers through his hair, the clasp of leather around his neck, the cuffs and the blindfold, his patron’s steel grip forcing him across the desk, squeezing just like this, a hand around his throat…

A wave of arousal moved through Javert, and he blushed. He was grateful when Monsieur Chabouillet finished shortly thereafter.

“There. You look better.”

Javert opened his eyes to the sight of his immaculate reflection in the mirror.

“Thank you,” he murmured. As Javert helped sweep up the locks of hair, he was reminded once more of why Chabouillet had to perform this task in the first place. “Regarding… regarding the matter of my suicide attempt, you needn’t worry any longer, Monsieur. That desire has passed. I have thought on what you said, and I… realize now it was a mistake.” He averted his gaze. “Whatever struggles I may have between God and the law, they require me to remain alive, and I would not wish to lose - to lose the opportunity to serve my superiors.” _Both_ his superiors, for would God truly regard it as a sin for Javert to submit his body to the mastery of another, so long as his soul belonged firmly to God?

Chabouillet regarded his subordinate in silence, noting the humble tilt of Javert’s head, the flushed cheeks, the dogged contrition in that face which could not hide a lie. “I do not doubt it,” he said, a smile gracing his lips. “Rest easy, Javert. I will see you again this weekend.” Bending, Chabouillet pressed a gentle kiss to Javert’s brow.

This time, he left the door unlocked.

~o~

Sunlight streamed through the open window, bringing with it a balmy summer breeze and the melody of birdsong. Javert inhaled deeply, grateful for his first breath of fresh air in a month. Leaning across the nightstand, he gazed outside. On the promenade, ladies gathered in fine dresses and parasols, young lawyers sipped coffee in front of a bistro, and a group of schoolboys sauntered off to class, textbooks beneath their arms, their boisterous laughter echoing up the boulevard. In the distance, a bell tolled near the Sorbonne, prompting the auburn-haired leader to shout at his classmates as they all broke into a run. Javert’s keen eyes flitted to one of the street signs. Rue de Tournon. He recognized this district: it was just west of the Place de L'Odéon, a home to upper-class students, artists, and their bourgeois families. Certainly not an area Javert had much occasion to visit.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sigh from his patron.

“What is it, Monsieur Chabouillet?” Javert glanced over at the desk.

Chabouillet shook his head sadly as he let a report slip from his fingers. “A death in our ranks. I knew it was only a matter of time with this new law.” Javert looked at him questioningly. “A thief was apprehended for stealing a wheel of cheese. The jury listened to his tragic tale - a meager harvest, starving children, no work - and granted him a reprieve under the amended criminal code. Well, not a fortnight later, the bastard struck again, this time with a pistol in hand.”

Javert’s eyebrows stitched together in a severe frown. “Was his story a lie then? Did no one think to check?”

“What does it matter?” Chabouillet retorted. “Even if he were telling the truth, his actions speak for themselves. He was given a second chance, and he used it to commit an even graver crime - the murder of a good officer. Now, it is my duty to inform Joseph Durant’s grieving widow of her husband’s death.” Sighing again, he pulled out a fresh letterhead with the Prefecture’s stamp. “Remember this, Javert: men like that thief can never change. It is as futile as training a fox to guard the hen house.”

Javert looked down and fidgeted with the gold-gilt rim of his teacup. He knew a thief who’d changed… but could all men be like Valjean? Was mercy worth the risk? “If - If you would allow me, Monsieur,” he began hesitantly, “I mentored Joseph when he was a trainee. He served with distinction at Rue de Pontoise and Les Halles. I would… very much like the honor of penning the letter to his family.” Straightening, he met his patron’s eyes with renewed resolve. A silent understanding passed between them.

Chabouillet handed the quill and parchment over to Javert.

~o~

Decades of police work had honed Javert’s instincts to an animal edge. He slept like a dog on the hunt, light and vigilant, his ears attuned to any disruption in his surroundings. On more than one occasion, his watchfulness had saved him from a break-in, and even now, safe as he was in Monsieur Chabouillet’s apartment, that instinct governed his every sleeping moment. When a soft creak interrupted the silence of night, he sat bolt upright, fingers fumbling for a pistol beneath his pillow before his mind had fully awakened.

“Forgive me for rousing you. I won’t be long.”

Javert breathed a sigh of relief as his patron lit a candle, illuminating the familiar face. “Is something the matter?”

It was a testament to Chabouillet’s exhaustion that he waived all pleasantries and simply collapsed in the chair by Javert’s bed, his satchel dropping at his feet. “The Prefecture is in chaos,” he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “After the barricades fell, the rebels’ allies scattered like rats from a sinking ship, and we’ve had our hands full tracking them down. Henri has instated martial law across the city; he’s tasked me with identifying the men who will be prosecuted before the courts. Out of hundreds of suspects, Javert! Half of whom have no family or residence!” Chabouillet shook his head in disgust. “So I am left to sift through witness reports, most of which are utter rubbish, in the hopes of producing something coherent for Monsieur le Préfet by Monday. The Ministry of the Interior is meeting, you see, and he must _look_ capable before Comte Bachasson, if only to deflect criticism in the papers.”

“Let me help,” Javert offered.

“Thank you, but regrettably, I must handle all these myself. Henri does not trust any of his other secretaries, what with the rumors brewing in the _Moniteur_.” Chabouillet yawned and propped his chin up with one hand. “I am merely stopping by for a rest before returning to the office. Just a… brief rest.” Slowly, his eyelids drooped, his head tilting forward on his palm.

Javert studied the worn lines that creased Chabouillet’s face, deepened by the flickering candlelight, the slumped shoulders and dull, disheveled hair, more gray than blond. His heart wrenched in his chest. “If there is anything I can do to give you ease, Monsieur…” Tentatively, Javert reached out to touch his patron’s thigh.

“Hmm?” Chabouillet startled awake. 

“I - I know I can no longer call you Maître, but should you require comfort or… pleasure, you need only ask.” Javert licked his lips. It pained him to offer himself up like a whore when all he ever wanted was his patron’s regard, but he swallowed his pride in the name of duty. “It would be my honor to serve you.”

Seconds passed before Chabouillet realized what his protégé was suggesting. “Oh no, there is no need. Besides, you are still weak from your injuries.”

“Monsieur Chabouillet, I assure you, I am perfectly up to the task!”

Chuckling, Chabouillet leaned forward and laid a soft kiss on Javert’s mouth. “That’s what I like about you, Javert. Always so eager to serve. But you must forgive me, I am too tired to indulge tonight.” He sighed. “Sleep is the only thing that will give me ease.”

“Then at least let me offer you the bed.” Javert started to push aside the coverlet. “I have been staying in your apartment, eating your food, taking advantage of your hospitality - ” He shook his head, anguish twisting his face. “Monsieur, please. Accept this much if nothing else.”

Chabouillet sighed and gestured for his subordinate to stay put. “Lie down. There is space enough for the both of us.” He shrugged off his jacket and unlaced his boots before sliding onto the sheets beside Javert, one arm looping around the other man’s shoulder. His nose grazed a lock of Javert’s hair. “I will only be a few hours…” he murmured as his eyelids fluttered shut. Soon, the creases on his face had smoothed out, and his breathing evened into slumber.

Hesitantly, Javert brushed a graying curl from Monsieur Chabouillet’s face, his fingers lingering on the high cheekbone. Despite the years, his patron still retained a refined elegance. The golden locks had faded to platinum, true, and wrinkles now marred the corners of Chabouillet’s eyes and mouth, but that jaw was as strong as ever, the nose sharp and angular, each brow a fine, molded arch. There was something of the lynx in Chabouillet, a feline power that transcended age or beauty, and Javert could not help but be drawn to it. It was this indescribable allure that had brought him to his knees in the first place. All his life, he had buried this shameful craving inside him, this flaw, like a single hairline crack that, when tapped, would shatter an entire mirror, and it was not until Monsieur Chabouillet that he realized his need for submission could be shaped into something good - something… desirable, even. Their relationship was a perfect symbiosis. For a time, Javert had known genuine happiness.

Yet.

Abruptly, Javert pulled his hand away from Chabouillet’s peaceful features.

Yet he wanted more. More affection, more intimacy, more of… _this_. Over the years, he had tried to quell his selfish longings, and when that proved impossible, to bury it beneath his devotion to the Prefecture, but these past few weeks, with his patron so kind and his sentiment so close to the surface, had rekindled that long-repressed yearning. Javert prayed fervently over this foreign emotion. His eternal soul belonged to God, he knew. His body was under the mastery of Monsieur Chabouillet. But this unruly heart in his chest? Javert feared the damnation it might lead him.

He remained awake until dawn, watching over his patron as a hound watches over its master, his vigilance directed more so toward himself than any outside threat.

~o~

Javert dressed slowly in his newly washed police uniform. He fastened each steel button with great care, aligned the tapered edges of the double breast, and didn’t glance into the mirror until he’d straightened every cuff and collar, every individual lapel, determined that his appearance be pristine. Yet when he met his own eyes, all Javert could see was a false image. The man in the mirror might look like an officer of the law, but it was clear from his uncomfortable bearing that he did not belong in any station-house. The set of his shoulders was telling enough. After weeks convalescing in bed, the navy fabric felt stiff around his chest, the severe cut tight at his waist and the sharp corners pinching his elbows. It was no longer the second skin he slipped into gladly each morning.

Sighing, Javert rubbed the nape of his neck. His collar was not among the items Monsieur Chabouillet returned to him, of course. The rigid black leather, finely tanned and smooth as butter, with a steel O-ring attached to its rear buckle, had been such a constant in his life that he felt naked without its weight upon his skin. Only a month ago, he would never have dreamed of losing it. Now, he had to bear the shameful reminder of its absence at his throat. Javert tied his ebony cravat in strict military fashion, pulling it extra taut, and adjusted the matching silk ribbon in his hair one more time before turning around.

“Come here, let me look at you.” From his seat on the divan, Chabouillet reached out a hand. Obediently, Javert limped over. Chabouillet rose and ran his fingers down the uniform’s front, stroking the starched cotton and tracing the slate gray borders, his touch lingering on the younger man’s hip. A slight crease dipped his brow when he noticed Javert’s cravat. He picked apart the knot, retying it in a long-winged, fluttering bow. “The à la Byron suits you better. More fetching.” He smiled.

“Thank you, Monsieur.”

“Do you remember the first time you wore this uniform? It was on your graduation. You were top of your class, of course, and the dean honored you at a ceremony in front of the entire academy.”

“You were there, I remember.”

“I took to the stage myself and pinned the medallion on you.” Leaning in, Chabouillet caressed the spot just above Javert’s left breast, his breath a warm, seductive whisper against the latter’s cheek. “You made me so proud that day, Javert. So proud.”

Javert closed his eyes, his throat thickening with emotion. He recalled it as if it were yesterday: the respectful nods from his instructors, the applause of his classmates, and Monsieur Chabouillet’s dazzling golden smile, drenching him in warm regard like the rays of the sun, as his patron affixed the silver leaf to his chest. “It was one of the happiest days of my life,” he said softly. A memory that gave him strength even in his most dire moments. “That and… the day you collared me.” Swallowing, Javert looked down at the leather collar beside Chabouillet’s cane.

Chabouillet followed his protégé’s gaze. Picking up the collar, he dangled it in front of Javert’s nose. “You can have it back if you wish.” Javert’s fingers twitched as if they longed to reach out. “But you must earn it. Prove that you are worthy of belonging to me again. In fact,” Chabouillet said slyly, allowing a note of disappointment to chill his voice, “after your actions on the bridge, I must wonder whether you even desire this.”

“Yes! I do!” Javert blurted out before catching himself. “That is… if you will have me. I - whatever my struggles between God and the law, they have no bearing on my devotion to _you_ , Monsieur Chabouillet. In private, I am yours to command.” Javert’s muscles tensed with barely contained yearning. Desperation and worship shone plain across his face, lighting the maelstrom that swirled in his wide, feverish eyes.

Chabouillet nodded, satisfied. “Good. We shall begin your training immediately, then.” Walking over to the mahogany armoire in the corner, he unlocked its top drawer. “But first, I want you to put this on.”

Javert reddened at the sight. He bowed once, then began to unbutton his trousers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- M. Chabouillet's "bedtime reading" for Javert is the [Criminal law reform of 1832](https://criminocorpus.org/en/legislation/textes-juridiques-lois-decre/textes-juridiques-relatifs-la-recidive/28-avril-1832-loi-contenant-des-modifications-au-code-penal-et-au-code-dinstruction-criminelle/), which reduced minimum sentences for various delicts, allowed evidence of reduced mental capacity, and let juries take on board rehabilitation prospects in sentencing. Thanks to jehane18 for providing [this reference](https://books.google.com.sg/books?id=wnrM8ngTIoEC&pg=PT71&lpg=PT71&dq=french+reform+law+of+1832+penal&source=bl&ots=JIr3y7uhnM&sig=U6xBPgh3dcXyk9NYSkMuYha8A_A&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjjgfyX2bvMAhXPbY4KHe_vCxcQ6AEIEzAD#v=onepage&q=french%20reform%20law%20of%201832%20penal&f=false).
> 
> \- The [Rue de Tournon](https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rue_de_Tournon) was a street where many writers, journalists, and painters lived. In the late 18th century, there were two buildings with hotels renting furnished rooms for students. Thanks to groucha for the [map](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v496/Firestorm717/odeon_zpsuoovcsd2.jpg): red marks Rue de Tournon, and green marks the Place de L'Odéon.
> 
> \- In the last scene, Javert initially ties his cravat in the Mathématique style, more suited for the military, but M. Chabouillet re-ties it in the trendier à la Byron fashion, which [Philip Quast](http://lesmiserables.wikia.com/wiki/File:Javert_quast.jpg) wore in the 10th Anniversary Concert. See [Plate C](http://dresslikeagrownup.blogspot.com/2012/08/taking-stock-of-cravat.html) from _The Art of Tying the Cravat_. (Note: The English translation of this book is incredibly poor. Best to hunt down the original French.)


	4. And Justice Shall Prevail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Through rigorous training, Javert finally earns back his collar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The majority of this chapter is straight-up hardcore BDSM porn with Dom!Chabouillet/sub!Javert, so if you're not into that dynamic, you should skip it. Initially, I planned for each of the lessons to be its own full scene, but alas, I ran out of time.

The first lesson was on obedience: to the law, to authority, and to Monsieur Chabouillet.

Javert stripped when he was ordered, he ate when he was ordered, but most often, he simply knelt in silence at his patron’s feet, eyes fixed humbly on the floor. The first few days, it was all Chabouillet allowed. He was to meditate on the rule of law, remembering his place in the police hierarchy. Recitations of its central tenets were accompanied by the strict discipline of Monsieur Chabouillet’s cane.

The initial tests were difficult: Javert was still torn by his newfound belief in God’s grace and often found himself dwelling on his past mistakes. Valjean intruded on his thoughts, sometimes as the saintly mayor he condemned at Montreuil-sur-mer, sometimes the faceless prisoner he beat at Toulon. Monsieur Chabouillet had to correct him regularly. The punishment his patron doled out was harsh, degrading, and yet Javert welcomed it as a reminder of his failure, a testament to how far he had to climb to earn back his collar.

The slap rung harshly in his ears.

“You’re a disgrace.” Chabouillet's lip curled as he glared down at his protégé. “Did you think my forgiveness could be bought so easily?”

“No,” Javert said softly, meekly. He lowered his head between Chabouillet’s feet. “I only wished to serve you.” He’d been presumptuous, he realized, to believe he still retained the privilege of sucking Monsieur Chabouillet’s cock. His proffered apology was in fact an insult to his patron’s authority. “May I… be allowed to make amends by cleaning your boots?”

Tilting his head, Javert breathed against the polished, coffee-brown leather, only to gasp when Chabouillet stepped on his neck.

“Don’t you dare dirty my boot with your lying tongue! You’re not fit to serve anyone. I should cast you back in the gutter from whence you came.” Javert cringed. Memories filled his mind for an instant of another town, another place, and a whore prostrated at his feet the same as he at his patron’s. He did not struggle when Chabouillet dragged him up by his ponytail. “Open your mouth. You don’t deserve this, but I’m going to give it to you as a reminder of your place.”

Obediently, Javert allowed his jaw to go slack, tongue rolling out, as Monsieur Chabouillet drew forth his ruddy cock mere centimeters from Javert’s face, stroking it quick and hard until come spattered across Javert’s cheeks, nose, and mouth.

~o~

The second lesson was on denial. Denial of his body in the name of duty, and denial of his mind in submitting unquestioningly to his patron. Emotions which hindered his devotion were quickly repressed. Javert buried his feelings from that night at the Pont au Change, focusing on the touch of Monsieur Chabouillet’s hand, its caress over his inner thigh, its pinch of a hardened nipple. He could not reach out in turn, naturally; most often, he was bound hand and foot, either spread-eagle on the bed or dangling by his wrists from a hook on the ceiling, his toes barely touching the floor. The teasing would go on for hours, with his patron stroking him to the edge of release. Monsieur Chabouillet then stopped for tea, settling back and watching calmly as Javert pleaded for an orgasm that was always denied…

“You are wearing it as I commanded?”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“Show me.”

Coloring, Javert unbuttoned his trousers. Through the gap, a steel cage jutted, its ringlet bars fitting snugly around his soft cock. A thick band fastened around the root of his shaft, secured by a small brass padlock between his balls.

“Mmmm, and how many days have you been locked up?”

“Fourteen… including the first day of my training.” Javert shuddered. He recalled how Monsieur Chabouillet had ordered him to put it on and turned the key with a _click_ , placing his most intimate parts under his patron’s control. Day and night he remained locked, aching for release, his skin thrumming with desperate need, yet the only times Javert was allowed out of his cage were when he was washing under Monsieur Chabouillet’s watchful eye, or when his patron thought to torment him by bringing him to the edge of climax… and leaving him there.

Chabouillet tapped his chin thoughtfully. “It’s about time. Kneel on all fours before the mirror.”

Javert moved with alacrity, a flicker of hope rising in his chest. Could it be that he would finally be granted release? Had all his teeth-gritting denial earned him a reprieve? His heart quickened when Monsieur Chabouillet pushed down his trousers and slid a palm up his thigh… but instead of touching his cock, it parted the cheeks of his ass, and a moment later, warm oil poured into his cleft and slicked his hole. Javert gasped. He clenched instinctively when Chabouillet pressed a finger to his entrance.

“Relax, I know it’s been a while.” Chabouillet rubbed soothing circles on his protégé’s hip. Gently, he eased in the first digit, crooking it against that secret place inside Javert, sending a shiver up the latter’s spine. He continued teasing that spot until Javert’s passage relaxed enough for him to add a second finger.

At first, the burning sensation was too much. Javert had not been taken this way in months, and he couldn’t help how his body balked at the intrusion. Yet slowly, the stinging dissipated to be replaced by a low hum of pleasure, a ball of heat that built in his belly, pulsing, aching, filling him with a fierce hunger until he felt like a rubber band ready to snap. He yearned for Monsieur Chabouillet’s affection, a kind word or caress to tip him over the precipice. But his desire was denied.

“Keep your eyes on your reflection.”

A moan reverberated through Javert’s chest. He forced his gaze to fix on the man in the mirror, bent over like an animal with two fingers in his ass, his flushed and throbbing cock a helpless prisoner in its cage. Humiliation swept through him like a violent gale, bringing with it a sick, sweltering lust. Gasping, Javert watched as liquid dribbled from his prick, first clear beads of pre-come, then thick drops of viscous white seed, forced out of him by his patron’s relentless thrusts. Chabouillet milked him for what seemed an eternity before the last of his spend trickled onto the floor.

Javert collapsed onto his forearms. “Please, Monsieur, have mercy.” Despite his physical release, the craving had not eased from his body or his mind. If anything, he was even more desperate to come.

“Mercy is for the weak,” Chabouillet said coldly, his eyes flicking to the floor. “Now, lick this up.”

Lowering his head, Javert pressed his tongue to the hot, sticky puddle of his own seed, watching his reflection as he lapped up every drop.

~o~

The third of many lessons was on service, for to serve Monsieur Chabouillet was the greatest reward.

Although Javert’s devotion was unquestioned, the many months since he’d been called upon to pleasure his patron had left his skills blunted from disuse. He was ashamed to admit it, but he could no longer bring Monsieur Chabouillet to climax so quickly with his tongue, and he winced when three fingers stretched his ass. His body, while still hearty and strong, lacked the figure of his youth. These failures weighed heavily on him; though Javert was loathe to accept the realities of his age, he could not deny that his patron had other options among the fawning, fresh-faced recruits who lined up eagerly at the Bureau door. If there ever came a day when his service was not enough -

Javert quickly banished that thought to the nethermost regions of his mind. He would do better, push himself harder, prove that he was worthy of his patron’s affection. And with gratitude, he found that Monsieur Chabouillet was willing to guide him. Patiently, Chabouillet spread his entrance, first with well-slicked fingers, then a small, elongated phallus of polished wood, which he wore beneath his drawers every night. Javert’s muscles burned with this secret shame, this instrument preparing his body to serve his Maitre. It was a hard lesson that ran in parallel with the training of his mouth…

Chabouillet reclined on the velvet divan, his trousers unbuttoned, slowly stroking his cock. “Come here.” He beckoned to Javert.

Crawling over on his knees, Javert eagerly wrapped his lips around Chabouillet’s prick, trying to swallowing the entire length at once.

“Ah, ah, just the tip.” Chabouillet pulled back his cock before Javert could choke. “You’re not ready for the rest yet.” Slowly, he eased the flushed, pink head into his protégé’s mouth, and Javert dutifully sucked on it, laving the corona with his tongue. “Focus, Javert. Run your tongue right along… ah… there.”

Javert practiced with intense concentration, licking where Chabouillet ordered him to lick, caressing where Chabouillet ordered him to caress, memorizing every sensitive patch of skin so he could better serve his patron. In the end, Monsieur Chabouillet drew back and stroked himself to completion. Leaning forward, Javert hungrily lapped the drops of spend from Chabouillet’s fingers like a dog eating from his master’s hand.

A week of this training saw his technique improve markedly, and soon, Monsieur Chabouillet judged him ready for the next lesson. This time, Javert knelt beneath the desk, careful to work silently so as not to disturb his patron. He gripped the base of the shaft and bobbed his head rapidly, ignoring his own pulse of arousal at Chabouillet’s moan.

“Yes, faster, suck it like that.”

Fingers tightened in Javert’s hair hard enough to hurt. He closed his eyes. Once, at the desk of another superior, he’d asked for such pain… yet that mayor had turned out to be a lie, and the forgiveness he was shown a ruse. The memory of that mercy rankled him now. Javert leaned into his patron’s cruel grip, seeking the surety and strict discipline he so craved from a man he knew to be his better.

“Take it all the way down,” Chabouillet bit out, putting pressure on the back of Javert’s neck.

Loosening his fist, Javert slowly slid the fat, throbbing cock down his throat, breathing through his nose as he fought the reflex to gag. He was obscenely pleased when he managed to reach the root - but right then, Chabouillet spilled with a groan, and Javert jerked back, heaving and coughing. Strands of seed mixed with his spit dripped onto the floor. Ashamed, he bent down quickly and licked them up, praying he would not be chastised too harshly for his slip.

Chabouillet glanced at the grandfather clock against the wall. “Still short by a minute from your best time. But you will do better next session.”

Javert bowed his head. “Yes, Monsieur.”

He continued to serve Monsieur Chabouillet at every opportunity, honing his skills with patient devotion, though their practices often left him hoarse and aching. Slowly but surely, his mouth re-learned the crevices of his patron’s cock, and his times improved. Yet despite his dedication, he always fell just shy of the cutoff. Determined, Javert put his considerable investigative abilities to task. He discovered Monsieur Chabouillet’s most pleasurable sensitivities… and one day, committed all his knowledge and technique to his service.

Javert swallowed around Monsieur Chabouillet’s prick, so deep down his throat that he could not breathe. Black spots began to dot his vision. Quickly, he glanced up at the clock. Only a handful of seconds to finish this. He worked his throat repeatedly, massaging the thick shaft, as he slid a hand up to gently fondle Monsieur Chabouillet’s balls.

It was the right move. Chabouillet came with a surprised curse.

Gripping his patron’s thigh, Javert forced himself to remain in place until all the seed had trickled into his belly, before allowing himself to pull back and gasp for air. Through the ache in his lungs and throat, satisfaction gleamed, pure as a diamond in the sun. He knew even before Monsieur Chabouillet’s next words that he’d broken a record with his time.

“Under four minutes.” Mopping his forehead, Chabouillet laughed. “You continue to surprise me, Javert.”

Although he arranged his features humbly, Javert could not keep a glint of humor from his eyes. “Monsieur did emphasize the need to take initiative in one’s service to the Prefecture.”

Smiling, Chabouillet caressed his protégé’s cheek. “Indeed. I never doubted your ability to rise to the occasion.”

Javert leaned into the tender touch, his heart swelling. His own untended arousal seemed a distant shadow to his patron’s glowing affection. Monsieur Chabouillet’s happiness was indeed a reward in itself.

~o~

On Sundays, Javert was granted a respite from his rigorous lessons while his patron caught up on personal correspondence and sorted through old police reports.

One such afternoon, Chabouillet held out a piece of paper and asked, “Javert, do you remember this?”

Leaning over, Javert plucked the parchment from his patron’s hand. He frowned when he recognized his own penmanship. “This is… my letter from Montreuil-sur-mer.” A storm of emotions swirled across his face, casting a pall over his expression.

“I am sorry I doubted you.” Gently, Chabouillet touched his protégé’s wrist. “I was caught in the midst of a difficult political transition at the time, what with Anglés stirring up trouble at the Ministry and Fortis eliminating enemies left and right in the Bureaus. But that is no excuse.” He sighed. “Your instincts have always been good. I should have investigated the matter further.”

Javert shook his head. “Please, Monsieur Chabouillet, there is no need to apologize. You were right to reprimand me. I had no proof, only a few vague suspicions. Given the facts of the Champmathieu case, my letter could only be interpreted as baseless slander against a superior.”

“What roused your suspicions in the first place?”

“There were… many reasons.” Javert scratched his whiskers as he reluctantly cast his mind back to those unhappy years. “I told you of the incident with the cart, but even before then, Madeleine did not act like a proper magistrate. He lived alone, spoke little, entertained even less; he spent more time handing out coin to ragged _gamin_ than associating with men of his social class. His permissiveness brought all sorts of swindlers and thieves to his factory door - and he welcomed them with open arms!” Javert bared his teeth, his tone taking on a vicious edge. “Then, he barred my arrest of a common whore…”

He remembered it as if it were yesterday, how Valjean had ordered him to leave the room while that filthy street-walker looked on smugly. Monsieur Chabouillet would never have humiliated him like that! No, whatever his mistakes, Chabouillet would not undermine his authority before a crook. In the days following that confrontation, Javert’s thoughts had turned constantly to his patron: the strict commands, the discipline of the cane, the adherence to law and regimen. It was not so much Valjean’s mercy that grated on him - since his revelation on the bridge, he’d been questioning whether mercy was indeed God’s intention in this case - but the fact that for the first time, a superior had elevated concern for another over Javert’s rectitude, where Monsieur Chabouillet had always valued his service above all others.

With that realization, Javert’s anger deflated. “Perhaps the greatest reason is that he was not you.” He muttered quickly, “I should not have let my personal feelings get in the way of my judgment.”

Chabouillet gave his protégé an uncharacteristically tender smile. “I missed your presence too. With the discord at the Prefecture, I thought it best to send you to the countryside for a while, but I see now that we would have both been happier if you remained in Paris.”

Javert’s expression softened, and the corners of his lips lifted a fraction. “Monsieur is too kind.”

“What happened after you received my reply?”

Abruptly, Javert’s face fell once more. “I reported to Valjean - to the false mayor - and informed him of my insubordination. I asked to be immediately dismissed. He refused. I explained to him the necessity of my dismissal, that it was not enough for me to resign, because I had failed in my duty and must be turned out. He told me I exaggerated my faults. I... implored him to be severe with me, to - to punish me, but… he would not.” Javert’s cheeks flushed at the memory, and he glanced away. “He ordered me to remain at my post, knowing how the shame would consume me.”

In a move that surprised them both, Chabouillet took his protégé by the shoulder and pulled Javert into a deeply possessive kiss. “Never again,” he breathed when they parted, his normally pale irises filled by pupils blown wide with desire. “No other shall have your loyalty but I, Javert.”

A shudder raced down Javert’s spine, and he leaned in again, seeking out his patron’s imperious lips. Thoughts of mercy and forgiveness and grace fled before the thrill of ownership beneath Monsieur Chabouillet’s indomitable will.

~o~

“You have made great strides, Javert.” Chabouillet’s tone was warm with approval. “Your service now is impeccable, and your endurance worthy of the admiration of even the hardiest soldiers. I believe we can conclude your training soon.”

“Thank you, Monsieur Chabouillet.”

“For your final lesson, we will revisit your ordeal at the barricades. It seems this lies at the heart of your unrest.” Chabouillet paced slowly around Javert as he unrolled a thick length of rope in his hands. “The night of your confession, you spoke of a man who freed you when he had every right to take your life. His unexpected mercy led to your breakdown on the bridge. Over the past few weeks, I have shown you how mercy was foolhardy in cases that should have been handled according to the law. Now, today’s lesson is on justice. As before, you must endure my torments to prove your devotion.” He paused, flicking a glance at his protégé. “Do you remember the rules?”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“Recite them.”

As Javert uttered the familiar tenets, Chabouillet wound the rope around his neck. “I may speak only when spoken to. I must obey all orders without fail. I must focus solely on my service to you.” Heavy coils fell against his chest as Chabouillet tied the rope off and threaded the handle between his legs, looping each end around the juncture of one thigh. Javert’s breath stuttered when the cord brushed against his balls. “I must not struggle, I must not come, and I may only touch myself if given an explicit command. In all matters, I submit wholly to your authority.” Without being asked, he crossed his arms behind his back and felt a knot wrap solidly around his wrists. “If I wish to halt the session at any time, I need only ask for mercy.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing above the noose as Chabouillet pulled it taut. The martingale was exactly as he remembered it: the coarse hemp, the thick braids, even the thirteen spirals in the hangman’s knot. The only difference was that this time, Javert did not even have the protection of his uniform against the chafe of the rope on his bare skin.

“Yes, _mercy_ is the word that guarantees your freedom.” Chabouillet’s voice dropped to a seductive whisper. Leaning in, he traced the rope around Javert’s right thigh. “And I promise you, Javert, that as soon as it passes your lips, I will cut your bonds and bring you to the sweetest release…” His thumb caressed the tip of Javert’s cock through the cage, eliciting a keen shiver.

Clenching his jaw, Javert focused all his willpower on remaining still. “But it will mean I have failed.”

“Correct.” Abruptly, Chabouillet pulled back, his expression shuttering once more. “Do you have any remarks before we begin?”

Javert licked his lips. “Monsieur please… do not hold back. Be as harsh with me as possible. I want - I _need_ to be punished for my mistakes.”

Chabouillet met his protégé’s dark blue eyes, hard as flint yet so desperate to spill their secrets into the light. “You will get your wish.” He smiled deviously.

That smile was the last thing Javert saw before the blindfold took his sight.

He followed the sharp tug of the handle, his stride hobbled by the ropes around his thighs, which pulled the noose tight with every step. Yes, this was how the rebels had bound him. If he concentrated, he could smell the spilled wine and acrid gun-smoke in the air. There had been a rifle pointed at his head as well, the steel muzzle digging into his scalp, but with Chabouillet’s hand around the base of his neck, Javert could imagine the jeweled rings on his patron’s fingers as the ramrod of a musket. It wasn’t long before a yank on his ponytail brought him to a halt. There was a moment of silence. Then, a swift kick struck the back of his shins. Javert gasped in surprise as his knees hit the floor. He was shoved unceremoniously down on what felt like a low wooden table, his cheek pressed against its lacquered surface by Chabouillet’s iron grip.

“Stay.” The word was as much a warning as a command.

A fingertip slid along the arch of his spine, circling the small of his back before dipping into the cleft of his ass, stroking, teasing. Javert’s skin prickled with heat. Blood began to rush to his groin, filling his cock until its tip brushed the metal cage. No, this was too early. He had to - had to maintain control, or else he’d be in even more pain later. The finger drew back briefly, then returned slick with oil, pushing inside his hole in one smooth motion. Another soon joined it, and then a third, scissoring and thrusting until the ring of muscle gave, allowing them to penetrate further. Javert could not stop a moan from bubbling past his lips. He tried to remain still, but his thighs spread of their own accord, jerking the noose tight around his throat.

After a minute, Chabouillet’s hand pulled away. There was the click of a cabinet door opening, the sound of oil splashing over something solid, followed by - Javert’s breath caught. Smooth and bulbous glass pressed against his entrance, the tapered head cool against his sensitive skin. A single thrust pushed past his muscle’s reflexive clench, and then the plug was stretching him wide, opening him up slowly and inexorably, the rim of his hole burning around the shaft as it slid past all resistance to settle deep inside his passage. Heat flushed Javert from head to toe. He could imagine the view through the clear glass base, revealing every twitch and spasm of his most intimate parts. It was a reminder of his submission: that no centimeter of his body, no matter how private, was spared from the scrutiny of Monsieur Chabouillet.

Chabouillet gave the plug a twist so its curved end rested against Javert’s prostate. “This remains inside you until I take it out. Is that clear?”

“Y-Yes, Monsieur.”

“Treat it as you would my cock.” Chabouillet chuckled and patted Javert’s ass. Javert groaned.

He waited for what felt like an eternity, bent over the table, the molded edge digging into his bare stomach and hampering his every breath. Sweat trickled down his forehead, dampening the thick wool of his blindfold. Memories of the wine-shop drifted up in his mind’s eye: the wood beneath his cheek had been rough and pitted, smears of gunpowder mingling with dark sticky stains, and the air so stifling hot that it parched his throat. Javert had not feared death then; he’d accepted it as rightful punishment for his failure. Beatings, humiliation, torture, all these he’d been prepared to endure until either his body gave out, or the rebels tired of their game and put a bullet through his skull. But that honorable death had been denied him. Instead, Valjean had planted this seed of mercy in his chest, and now, Javert’s soul was made to suffer from its fruits of doubt.

The _thwack_ of leather snapped him out of his thoughts. Tails of heavy, braided bullhide landed across his back, followed by the sting of the beaded ends. Javert inhaled sharply. No warm-up, this flogging. Pain rippled like a shockwave up his skin. Again, the tails struck, hard enough to bruise. He clenched his hands behind him, wishing he could grip the table. Another ten blows, and he was panting with the effort of holding still, his entire back a canvas of burning welts. Sweat ran freely down his neck and chest to pool between his legs. Javert knew now why Monsieur Chabouillet had shoved the plug inside him before the beating. Every strike from the flogger caused his muscles to clamp reflexively around its thick glass shaft, driving it into his prostate, which sent sparks of lust chasing after the agony that scorched his nerves. His engorged cock pushed against the bars of its cage. Pain and pleasure twisted into one, a blazing spear that impaled him from end to end.

He was no longer Javert of the police. He was an extension of his patron - his Maître - and the blows were the conduit through which they were linked.

The thought delighted him. Suffering for Monsieur Chabouillet was a privilege. What use did he have for frivolous romance when their connection ran so much deeper? Surely, his Maître understood this too. Given their respective stations, Javert could never confess his feelings directly, but his submission was proof enough of his love and devotion. No other served as completely as he. As the tails of the flogger pounded his flesh, he rose further and further into that space of exquisite ecstasy, transcending lust, transcending pain into a wide and empty plane above the clouds, where he thought to glimpse the Divine Himself.

_You are free, there are no bargains or conditions._

Javert jerked, his concentration shattering. No, no, that was not the Divine! Yet it was too late, the image of Valjean’s compassionate face seared indelibly into his mind, and with it, the doubt that had wracked him since the sewers. Mercy. Grace. A kindness that knew no conditions. How could he lie here and play prisoner when for nineteen years, a good man like Valjean had borne the real lash in Toulon? Could there be others like him? Perhaps even among the rebels, whom the National Guard had executed without judge or jury? Guilt swirled in Javert’s heart, and he moaned brokenly at the next blow from the flogger, his struggles pulling the martingale tighter.

The beating halted. A cool hand touched the dip of his spine, caressing his bruised skin soothingly.

“Is this already too much for you?”

Javert did his best to shake his head. “I need more.”

There was the whisper of leather against wood, and then suddenly, a heavy cane cracked across his buttocks. Javert jolted forward, a yelp spilling from his lips. Pain scorched his skin atop the deep throb of his bruises. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the next stroke. Blows rained down like lightning before a storm, quick and merciless, setting every nerve on fire. A fierce stripe landed right in the center of his ass, driving the glass plug deeper inside him, and amid the agony in his flanks and the burning of his hole, a sliver of heat bloomed into feverish, aching pleasure. Javert shuddered as a bead of liquid slid from his cock. Monsieur Chabouillet must have seen his shameful arousal, for the cane slipped between his legs and prodded his balls until, whimpering, he tried to squirm away.

It was a mistake for in the next instant, a hand clamped around his neck and two strokes landed in rapid succession, one on each inner thigh.

“I ordered you to remain still.”

“I-I am sorry, Monsieur.”

“The next time, my aim will be higher.”

Chabouillet gave his balls a light squeeze, and Javert groaned. “I… understand.”

For a second, he thought he was safe from further punishment, but then, like a viper, Chabouillet struck with the head of the cane. A cry tore from Javert’s lips. Metal teeth dug into his right shoulder blade, slicing a deep groove through his flesh.

“You can stop this at any time, Javert,” Chabouillet crooned in his protégé’s ear. “Just say the word.” The teeth sank in again, ripping a gash in the other shoulder blade.

Javert gritted his teeth as blood oozed from the wounds. “No. Beat me harder.”

He tensed, expecting a harsher blow, but Chabouillet drew away. There was a pause, then oil poured down his lower back and into the cleft of his ass. The glass plug shifted and slowly slid out of him with a wet, sucking sound. Javert moaned deep in his chest. Reflexively, he clenched his hole, but the plug returned a heartbeat later, thrusting easily past his weak, fluttering muscles. Again and again it fucked him with unhurried speed, pressing unerringly against that spot of pleasure inside him. Lust gradually overwhelmed the pain that coursed through his veins… but with it came the acute throbbing of his cock, caged and locked, only half-hard, for its small cell kept it from stiffening fully. When Chabouillet rubbed the plug in teasing circles over his prostate, his cock’s head thrust like a hungry beast against the bars, and Javert gasped as metal dragged across sensitive skin.

So pleasure too was a torture. One more piece of his submission. This Javert accepted gladly as he did the pain, channeling the frustration of his denial into deeper, better service to his Maître. He was a weak man in truth. A man who desired at his core to bend before another man. Monsieur Chabouillet had seen this, had not shied away in disgust, indeed had welcomed him and trained him to put his body to use in ways that gratified his patron and the Prefecture. Javert would forever be grateful for this gift. He had little to offer in return except his loyalty, but he hoped it was enough to earn Monsieur Chabouillet’s regard… and perhaps, one day, genuine affection as well.

The plug halted at its widest point, stretching him agonizingly tight. A hand spread his buttocks apart, and a finger lightly traced his hole’s puffy red rim. “Squeeze. Come now, I want to see.” 

Javert trembled, heat radiating from every centimeter of his body. “Monsieur, please…”

“Squeeze it as if it were my cock,” Chabouillet snapped.

Bowing his head, Javert clenched around the slippery glass toy, his entrance burning with the effort. Chabouillet’s low chuckle completed his humiliation. 

“Again, and tilt your hips up this time. You know how I like it.”

Javert panted like a wild animal as he squeezed and thrust his ass up, a loud groan ripping from his chest when the plug slid back inside him. Too much, God, it was too much. Rivulets of sweat ran down his neck and back, stinging the open cuts on his shoulders. Futilely, he twisted and jerked his wrists against their bonds. He needed - needed a hand on him, just a simple touch, a caress on his thigh or his hip to remind him that release awaited if he could endure till the end of this lesson…

“Don’t you want to come? I’ve denied you for so long.” Reaching down, Chabouillet cupped and rolled Javert’s balls, thumbing the tightly stretched skin. “Look how heavy these are, so full of spend.”

Javert gasped and squirmed, pre-come dripping from the tip of his cock. Mercy beckoned seductively in his mind, a saint with Valjean’s kind hazel eyes.

“I’ll put my mouth on you. Remember how that felt? You spread out on my bed, with your drawers around your ankles, while I swallowed your cock to the hilt.” Chabouillet whispered with a wicked lilt in his voice, “I’ll let you come down my throat this time.”

Moaning, Javert bucked into Chabouillet’s palm. “I…”

“You need only ask for mercy.”

“…will not.”

He barely had time to draw his next breath when white hot pain speared his groin. Wildly, he thrashed, while Chabouillet kept a tight grip on his balls, until his curses and pleas were choked off by the noose, yanked taut by his struggles. When that cruel hand finally let him go, he collapsed with a soft whimper, all strength drained from his body.

“Very good. I knew you could pass a simple test, Javert, but this is only the first part of your lesson.”

Dimly, Javert was aware of a damp cloth dabbing the worst of his welts, and then the glass plug eased slowly out of him, leaving behind a hollow ache: an ache to be comforted. But he had not earned it yet. There was no justice in showing generosity to the undeserving.

Chabouillet allowed him only a minute to recover before pulling him upright by the rope. Javert swayed, dizzy from the sudden rush of blood from his head, as he stumbled after his Maître. He’d only staggered a short distance before a shove sent him to his knees once more. This time, Chabouillet’s arm wrapped around him from behind, and another hand lifted his chin, exposing the vulnerable arc of his neck. Warm breath ghosted across his cheek, tickling his whiskers. Javert could feel his Maître’s erection jutting against the small of his back. He leaned up, hoping for a kiss…

_Snick._

Instantly, Javert’s heart leaped into his throat. He tried to twist around, only to be halted by a knife against his neck.

“Do not move.”

Beads of sweat sprang up on Javert’s brow. Was this part of his lesson? A test of his trust, same as when Monsieur Chabouillet wielded the shaving razor? He forced his voice to remain level as he said, “Monsieur, if I have offended you in any way, I promise that - ”

The flick of the blade drew a hot stripe of blood across his clavicle. Javert gasped.

“And do not speak.”

This was wrong. Had he not done enough to prove himself? Bent again and again before Monsieur Chabouillet’s will? Yet all his devotion earned was more cruelty. A shred of ire rose in Javert’s chest, hot and foreign. To submit to pain or pleasure was one thing, a service he gladly performed, but to allow his patron to toy with his life… images leaped unbidden of a narrow, muddy alleyway, corpses piled high in the summer heat, a beam of sunlight bouncing off a rusted weather-vane and into his eyes, blinding him in the instant the _surin_ descended toward his neck - with a shuddering breath, Javert repressed the memory. No. That was a convict, a man who rightly should have killed him. This was Monsieur Chabouillet. He had to trust that, beneath the seeming malice, his Maître had only his best interests at heart.

“When you told me of your actions at the barricades, you made me… very angry, Javert.” Casually, Chabouillet traced the tip of the knife down Javert’s breast. “So angry that, for a second, I considered dragging you before the General Inspectorate myself. It would be just retribution for all your lies and your flagrant disobedience of the law.” The blade twitched again, slashing a thin line below his nipple. Javert gritted his teeth. “But then, I realized that mere imprisonment was not enough. With your letter to the Prefect, you committed a personal offense against me, and honor dictates that I mete out justice with my own hands.” Chabouillet drew the knife’s edge right over the pounding of his protégé’s heart.

The hound in him howled at Javert to fight, to resist, to bite back at the master who’d turned rabid and no longer deserved his undying loyalty.

“...Forgive me for interrupting, Monsieur Chabouillet, but even a condemned man is allowed a few words in his own defense.” He kept his tone carefully humble, though surely his patron could feel the tension in his every muscle, poised to either lash out or take flight. When he received no rebuke, Javert took it as a signal to continue. “I never sought to injure you. It is true I lied and broke the law, and I agree I must be disciplined for it. However, the letter had no bearing on your reputation. It was addressed to Monsieur le Préfet, and it merely contained recommendations for the good of the service. That is all.”

“Are you insinuating that I am unable to identify attacks on my own person?”

“No, I am suggesting that perhaps Monsieur is mistaken in his reasoning.” Javert licked his lips. “None but you or I have seen the letter’s contents. My intent was innocent, this I swear upon the Holy Virgin. It is - it seems unjust to sentence me for a crime with no real evidence.”

“Duly noted. However, since I am your superior, the final verdict is mine to decide.” There was a pause, then Chabouillet’s voice hardened. “And I say your betrayal deserves no less punishment than any traitor’s.”

Before he could react, the knife swiped a shallow cut right above his throat.

“Stop this,” Javert cried, thrashing now in truth. Blood trickled from the wound, trailing down the column of his vital vein.

“Beg.”

“This is unjust. Stop!” Growling, Javert threw his weight to the left, attempting to break free, but between his poor leverage and the ropes that held him fast, Chabouillet was able to pin him to the floor.

“Beg me, you know the word!”

“Please…”

“Please what?”

 _Mercy._ The word almost slipped from his lips. Mercy that he, Javert, had never asked for that day in the alleyway, amid the blood and filth and corpses stacked high like driftwood. He should have rejected it then, when Valjean planted the seed of doubt inside him. He must reject it now if he was to uproot this strange and terrifying flower, which caused his heart to rebel at his superior’s rightful accusations. It had no place here, where his satisfaction lay only in bowing to his Maître’s authority, as he had always done before.

Although the words tasted bitter on his tongue, Javert uttered quietly, “Please, do what you will with me. My life belongs to you.”

He almost thought he felt the blade take his final offering of submission.

Instead, his wrists were freed, followed swiftly by the ropes around each thigh. “There, it’s over.” A hand brushed his cheek, and instinctively, Javert flinched away. “Do not fear. I am only removing your blindfold.” Fingers worked at the back of his head, and the thick black wool lifted.

Javert blinked rapidly, blinded by the sudden influx of light. “Monsieur…?” He rubbed his eyes.

“Relax. You did well, Javert.” Chabouillet extended a hand from his seat on the bed, beckoning Javert forward. “For a moment at the end, I thought you would break, but you rallied and proved that even death was no hindrance to your loyalty.”

Javert stared at his patron’s hand, wavering. Was this another deceit? A trick to get him to drop his guard? He studied Chabouillet’s face, but saw only genuine concern. “There was no need to threaten my life,” he muttered as he edged over on his knees, not trusting himself on his feet just yet.

“Did you really think I would put you in danger? You, who have always been my dearest protégé? It was a difficult test, I know. You asked me to be harsh with you, and I pushed every limit, but you proved yourself strong in both body and mind.”

“The knife was unexpected.” Javert grimaced, rubbing the cut below his jaw. A trickle of blood seeped from the wound.

“Here, let me daub some salve on that.” Gently, Chabouillet wiped up the blood with a cotton kerchief, then scooped two fingers of salve from a flat ceramic jar, smoothing the cool, viscous liquid over Javert’s skin. “I would not have given the test if I didn’t think you capable of passing. Your stoicism in the face of pain is impeccable, this I’d already seen. However, after your leap into the Seine, you struggled with obedience to secular authority, and I needed to know whether you’d resolved this conflict.” He caressed his protégé’s cheek fondly. “And you did, so very admirably. Your willingness to sacrifice for me was touching.”

“I am glad to have pleased you,” Javert murmured, mollified by his patron’s rare praise. A small voice in the back of his mind asked if Chabouillet would ever sacrifice in the same way for him, but he quickly stamped out the blasphemous thought.

“More than that,” Chabouillet smiled, “you made me proud.” Bending down, he kissed Javert deeply on the lips.

It was as if a dam had burst in his chest. All his lingering doubts and resentments melted before the rushing tide to be replaced by fervent passion. Javert closed his eyes and leaned into the kiss, one hand bracing clumsily against Chabouillet’s thigh. He had little experience in such gestures, but he knew how to follow his Maître’s direction. When Chabouillet’s tongue traced the seam of his lips, he opened his mouth and allowed that seeking tongue inside, whimpering softly as it thrust deep. Warmth flooded him and flushed his face; it stirred the ardor in his heart, a cauldron filled with memories of his youth under his patron’s guiding hand and yearning for a future in those same arms.

Javert leaned up hopefully for a few more seconds after Chabouillet broke the kiss before settling back on his haunches. “Thank you, Monsieur Chabouillet.”

Chuckling, Chabouillet coaxed his protégé’s head onto his knee. He unlaced the blue silk ribbon that held Javert’s ponytail fast and ran his fingers through the river of silver-streaked hair that poured across his thigh, his touch light and tender, familiar in a way that soothed Javert to the core. What little tension left Javert’s shoulders, and he moaned softly when Chabouillet massaged the nape of his neck. Tranquility washed over him like an ocean wave lapping at the shore. He never felt more at peace than beneath his patron’s ministrations, stroked as one would a beloved pet, humble and filled with adoration for his master.

It was in this state of contentment that Chabouillet sprang his final test.

“There is but one more thing. A choice that you must make.” Javert stiffened and raised his head. “Your collar awaits at the end of this lesson, but I sense you long for a different outcome. So I will give you another offer: if you ask for mercy, then I will take you back into my fold, make you my equal as lover and friend, let all of these bygone sins go. That is what you want, is it not? I can see it in your eyes,” he said softly, lifting Javert’s chin to meet his gaze. “Come now, there is no shame in begging. My offer is without conditions.”

Javert who up till then had remained dry-eyed through agony and humiliation, through threats and games with his mind, felt tears pricking the corners of his vision. He knew the answer required of him. He knew what the twisted seed in his heart desired. The two were in conflict just like justice and mercy. Love beckoned seductively; it filled his heart with promises of compassion and freedom, such tender pleasures as he’d dreamed of in those early days pining after Monsieur Chabouillet, denying the reality of their respective positions. He could have it now, a voice whispered in his ear, if he only accepted mercy this once. Javert opened his mouth, the word about to slip out… and bit his tongue.

Not yet, he could not give in just yet. There was more at stake than his selfish desires. For love without submission was as dangerous as mercy without justice: both lulled the recipient into a false sense of well-being, forgiving trespasses that should never be allowed under the law. How could he claim to serve society if he allowed such perilous emotions to rule his judgment? Without the conditions that bound him to submission, they would lead only to the reckless romps of youth, impelling him to grand, foolish misdeeds. No, even if it meant losing Monsieur Chabouillet as his lover, he must choose justice. This was honorable. This was right.

All his rationalizations did nothing to subdue the longing in his heart. Javert resorted to his only sure escape: goading his patron to violence, so Chabouillet would lash out in turn and withdraw the enticing offer he knew he could not accept.

Baring his teeth, he snarled with the viciousness of a wounded dog, “I spit on your wretched mercy.”

The slap sent him reeling to the floor.

Chabouillet stood up and unbuttoned his trousers. “Very good, Javert. Now, open your mouth.” Grabbing a fistful of Javert’s hair, he yanked the other man onto his cock.

Javert’s jaw went slack. He swallowed reflexively, tongue flattening against the shaft of Chabouillet’s prick. This was easy. This was second nature. There was no room for sentiment in such base acts. By now, he could bring his Maître to hardness with barely a thought, and he threw himself into it with enthusiasm, licking and sucking the hefty, veined cock. It wasn’t long before the flesh in his mouth thickened, stretching his lips obscenely wide. Then, Chabouillet started thrusting fast and deep, fingernails digging into his scalp. Javert gagged only once before he tilted his head back and relaxed his throat, allowing his Maître to slide nearly to the hilt, rough curls of pubic hair brushing against his nose.

It was simple to forget himself in these moments. Javert closed his eyes, focusing solely on the slurping sounds and the salty taste of the flesh in his mouth. Arousal moved through him like a wave from Chabouillet’s prick to his own. He had one purpose: to serve. There was no need to think or to feel beyond his bodily desires. His place was at his Maître’s feet, and his duty was clear. Saliva dribbled down Javert’s chin, and his Adam’s apple bobbed, wringing a moan from his patron. Fingers tightened painfully in his hair, dragging him all the way to the root of Chabouillet’s cock. His lungs heaved futilely for air as a pitiful gurgle welled in his throat. The violence of it filled him with perverted lust; the debasement enforced his submission; Javert’s prick twitched, stiff in its cage, and he looked up as a tear streaked down his cheek.

Abruptly, Chabouillet pulled off, his face drawn in a flushed and predatory grin. Javert gulped mightily for breath.

“Up. On the bed.” Javert scrambled shakily onto the sheets. He started to kneel on all fours, but Chabouillet flipped him onto his back, eliciting a sharp hiss. “Grip the bedposts tightly.” Iron manacles cuffed his wrists above his head.

Chabouillet straddled him and bit the juncture of his shoulder and neck. Strong hands spread his legs, caressing his stomach, his thighs, his balls which ached from long denial. Smirking, Chabouillet rolled a dark, distended sac in his palm, stroking the sensitive skin with his thumb.

“God, please,” Javert groaned, bucking his hips. His cock drooled between the bars of its cage.

“Speak clearly when you are making a request.”

“Please, I need - ahhh…” Javert shuddered as two slick fingers worked his entrance open, shoving brutally against his prostate. “I need you… inside me.”

“What was that? I didn’t quite understand.”

“Please fuck me, Monsieur!”

Lifting Javert’s ass, Chabouillet penetrated him in one sharp thrust. Twin moans echoed through the bedchamber. Javert writhed beneath his patron, wrenching the chains of the manacle taut. It was so hot… so tight… his passage burned with the stretch of Chabouillet’s thick, throbbing prick. He panted for air, his hole clenching and unclenching helplessly. Soon, his Maître began to move, first with shallow thrusts, then quickly ramping up in speed until Chabouillet was pounding at a ruthless pace into him, balls slapping against his ass. Javert was powerless beneath the assault. Firm hands held his thighs apart; his knees were propped up on Chabouillet’s shoulders, so all he could do was curl his toes and squeeze around his patron’s cock. He lost himself in the rough grind of flesh on flesh, the sparks of pleasure that raced up his spine each time Chabouillet slid against that secret place inside him, the sweat and the lust and the sheer joy of surrendering to his Maître. Doubt melted away, as did shame; there was only the exquisite agony of their joining.

“You look stunning like this.” Chabouillet kissed him hungrily.

“Maître…”

“Keep hold of the bedpost.”

The noose which still encircled his throat slowly tightened. Javert gasped, open-mouthed, every muscle straining in his neck. Dark spots entered his vision. Suddenly, Chabouillet let go of the rope, and the combined rush of air and impalement on his patron’s cock sent him spinning into a cloud of euphoria. 

“More,” Javert heard himself rasp, hoarse and wrecked.

Again, the noose choked off his breath, and Javert twisted his head, tongue lolling as he gasped a wordless plea. His jugular vein fluttered like a butterfly trapped beneath the rope. After an interminable length, Chabouillet released him, and the punch of air made his cock jerk against its cage, tender skin pressing against metal. Javert moaned brokenly. He felt as if his prick would burst. It was agony to be locked up, to be denied when he was so close. It was ecstasy to be possessed, to be taken on his Maître’s cock. In his mind, the two melded into one, and as the noose squeezed his neck one more time, the last thought before his vision faded to black was that this was the justice he deserved.

The moment Javert’s fingers slipped from the bedpost, Chabouillet let go of the rope and spilled inside his protégé with a groan.

Javert drank in stridulous breaths as his patron rolled off him and uncuffed the manacles around his wrists. 

“It’s over now, Javert, truly over,” Chabouillet panted, pulling the noose over Javert’s head. “Do you have any regrets? Anything you wish of me?”

Javert closed his eyes, a blissful peace settling across his sweat-drenched features. “My only place is to serve, Monsieur.”

Chabouillet smiled. Producing a key from the nightstand, he unlocked Javert’s cock cage and sucked his protégé to completion, swallowing the spurts and spurts of salty come until Javert was wrung dry, quivering and suppliant beneath him.

~o~

After he had bathed, after Chabouillet had tended to his cuts and abrasions, Javert rested quietly beneath the silk sheets, his head pillowed on his patron’s bare chest. Chabouillet’s elegant fingers combed through his long hair, a soft and welcoming caress. For the first time since his leap into the Seine, he felt content. Although his bruises throbbed and his body was sore, an inner serenity had descended upon him, calming the waters of his darkest desires. He submitted, he belonged; the thread of mercy, which had pulled one half of him on the bridge, was now loosed, and the thread of justice firmly tied around his soul. There could be no doubt about his loyalties.

Yet… something rippled in the pool of Javert’s heart. A last temptation he needed to quell.

“Monsieur Chabouillet, may I ask a question?”

“Yes, speak your mind. There is no need to stand on ceremony.” Chabouillet smiled down at him.

“What you said when you had my head on your knee… was it just to… test my resolve? Or…” Javert tugged his whiskers, unsure what he even wanted to ask. Was Monsieur Chabouillet’s offer genuine? Was it simply a game? Did it matter?

Chabouillet’s hand stilled in Javert’s hair, and a pensive expression crept across his face. “Not many in your position would choose justice.” He said softly after a pause, “You did well, Javert.”

“But does that mean - ”

Leaning over, Chabouillet silenced his protégé with a kiss. “Of course I will return your collar. You’ve more than earned it back.” He stood up and belted on a robe, then unlocked the top drawer of the mahogany armoire. In his hand, he dangled Javert’s black leather collar. “Come kneel and kiss the ring.”

Javert slowly approached his Maître. It was everything he’d suffered for. It was his ultimate reward. Yet again, that ripple disturbed the reflection of perfect obedience in his heart.

He sank to his knees, searching for any regret in Monsieur Chabouillet’s gaze. He found none.

Bowing his head, Javert kissed the ring. The collar fit his neck as perfectly as the noose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- For an illustration of Javert in the martingale, check out [vejiicake's sketch](http://vejiicakes.tumblr.com/post/54283757604/beggarman8-vejiicakes-javert-in-martingale). The ropes around the thighs prevent the captive from running, since normal strides will pull the noose tight and strangle you.
> 
> \- The cock cage is based on [this chastity device](http://www.uberkinky.co.uk/attica-chastity-cage-82646.html) (Warning: NSFW).
> 
> \- The reason M. Chabouillet orders Javert to grip the bedpost during the breathplay scene is because it's a safeword: since he cannot talk while being choked, the sub holds onto an object tightly and drops it if he wishes the scene to stop (or he passes out).


End file.
